


tomorrow's weather will be

by Julivor



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Age Progression, Child Abuse, Coming of Age, Delinquent Human AU, Dom/sub, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Middle school Alfred, Nice boy Alfred, Older Arthur, Pining, Slow Burn, UKUS, Younger Alfred, delinquent arthur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 07:10:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10354929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julivor/pseuds/Julivor
Summary: Their friendship's constructed from sticks and stones, held together haphazardly by blood, sweat, and whatever pocket money fourteen year old Alfred can hope to spare. (Or, alternatively, he's went and placed Arthur in the spot where his heart used to be, because he's gone and lost his own.)Delinquent AU





	

Alfred's seven years old, eight if he wears the sneakers that boost him up by two inches, when someone rings the doorbell at three in the morning. He clambers out from his bed, and focuses very hard to avoid the many bottles on the floor for fear of waking his mother and her _friends_.

Friend is used loosely, because they aren’t quite nice to her. But sometimes they help him do his homework or give him sweets, which is good. He can’t stomach the food his mother makes anymore.

The visitor is somewhere between his twenties to thirties. Looking back, Alfred supposed he could have even passed off as being in his teenage years. Tall and lanky, dressed in ripped jeans and a dark green hoodie two sizes too big.

(Fucking ripped jeans. Atrocious, just- atrocious. It'd been the 90s, past the post-grunge boom. Alfred swears his uncle still has some hidden in the deepest depths of the attic.

Ah, but he’s digressing.)

Alfred had looked up at him then, eyes half-lidded from sleep and exhaustion, yawning tiredly, "hello."

He doesn’t remember what the man says next, only that his mother, Marilyn Taylor (“Oh please, none of that Jones business! I haven’t seen my husband in years.”) suddenly appears behind him. The fluorescent lamp casts her shadow over him, encroaching and oppressive, making it even harder to discern the stranger’s features.

“Alfred, Mommy has some business to take care to,” his mother says. She’s adopted her “working voice”, the one where she seems neither pleased nor unhappy. There is no vivid or subtle emotion underlying her timbre. Simply business.

“Alright,” he says, rolling his ‘r’s as he was so apt to do then.

He remembers walking back into his room, but for whatever reason compels children to do the things they do, he stops by the corner and listens. They talk in hushed voices and no matter how hard he strains to hear, they words float above and away. Though, what he does know, is that his mother's becoming more angry from the way she starts raising her voice.

What happens after is an obscure jumble of memories, pieces of moments he can't envision with clarity. He does, however, remember saying something of the other. His mother had approved, he knows this, because she cites, “What a wonderful idea, Alfie," and he'd been so proud of himself. Thinking back further, they'd been enjoying breakfast, maybe lunch - a meal. Somewhere in the kitchen. She hadn't noticed the way Alfred rubbed at his eyes every few minutes. When she finally turns his way, it’s to kiss him goodbye and leave for work.

The gap in his memories pick up somewhere a month after the man visits, he reckons. Though, he isn't so sure himself.

She takes him to her room and on her bed. Alfred’s hoisted on her lap, and dressed in his best clothes – a flannel shirt with matching shorts. He can no longer see further than a few feet in front of him, everything leafing over and merging into an aggregated blur of irritation and headaches.

His mother is a beautiful woman with delicate features; her skin milky-white, with a healthy flush painting across her cheeks. There are freckles adorning her nose, tiny brown beads that blend well with her complexion.

She moves to curl a stray strand of blonde hair, shiny like spun gold, behind an ear. Her eyes are her best features, Alfred knows, because that’s what everyone says. It’s the only piece of her he’s inherited.

When he looks up, he sees his own reflection stare back. If eyes are windows to the soul, then his mother must be a Valkryrie, thundering through the fields, a breath of fresh air free to travel the world unshackled.

“Mommy’s gotten herself into a bit of trouble, Alfie,” she says, rubbing his head with soft hands. Her voice lacks inflection. She speaks to him the way she would a stranger. 

“It’s okay,” he assures, hugging her to hide his upset face.

She chokes just a bit. Alfred’s always been a bit too strong for his age. “So I need to leave for a while. To sort a couple of things over. It’s alright, dear. I’ll come back to get you, alright. I promise, okay.”

Alfred doesn’t know what else to do but nod. “Come home soon,” he says, detaching himself from her sweet blue sun-dress. He remembers telling her not to forget to lock the door when she comes homes, and to have a safe adventure. He can’t stay up for her, lately his eyesight has been getting worse. But he hasn’t told her yet, he doesn't want to upset her anymore.

Instead, Alfred walks her to the door and waves until she rounds the corner and disappears from his peripheral vision. She doesn’t look back even once.

The next morning, he isn’t surprised to find her room empty. When he’s finished preparing breakfast, the likes of which he cannot quite remember, there’s a simultaneous knock at the front-door coinciding with Saturday's morning cartoon, Rugrats. 

Outside, he's greeted by two police officers.

It’s been seven years he’s last seen her, and his only regret is forgetting to say goodbye. 

 

\+ +

 

“Williams.”

Alfred’s snapped out of his daze, the likes of which are a screaming conundrum of World War II planes and detonating bombs, to the terrible, no good, awful face of Mrs. Hendricks. He’s spirited away from his somewhat inaccurate daydreams of Abraham Lincoln riding shirtless on a pterodactyl, swinging the Second Amendment duct-taped to a bayonet – how patriotic! – and plunged knee-deep into Classical Literature.

“Williams, might I inquire just why you’re sleeping for what can be counted the sixth time in my class this week?” she spurs, placing a rigid hand on the edge of his desk. Alfred knows he should look her in the eye when he talks but it's like staring into the belly of the beast, man, he hasn't racked up enough experience points yet.

 _Because_ _Shakespeare_ _is boring. I don’t like Macbeth. Sometimes I mix up thy and thou like I do my left and right socks._ A thrilling list of answers speed through his mind, none of which appropriate to voice. Admittedly, Mrs. Hendricks viewed even the most mundane of things inappropriate. Alfred gives it his best shot anyway.

“I don’t get enough sleep,” Alfred says, more a question than an answer.

She fixes him a keen stare.

He shrugs. “I'll write another report?”

“And.”

“And?” Alfred parrots, stumped. Oh. Oh, right. “And I'm sorry?”

She removes her hand from his desk and continues her march forward, off to terrorise the next student so lowly inconsiderate to have dozed off. God speed, friend. “That you are. Be sure to write with at least some effort this time. The last one was chicken scratch.”

The class continues on, Alfred trying his best to pay attention. His textbook is a swirl of archaic English, melding together into a beast he just can’t comprehend.

He's distracted throughout the whole lesson, furiously looking between the notes she scribbles on the board and his own textbook. Even after the lunch bell rings, he's still fervently reviewing the session mentally. It's kind of like a ball. Wait, no. A peanut, Alfred theorises.

The shell would have to be the Shakespearian language itself, hardening into a tough outer brown of dead British linguists or whoever, European maybe, Alfred could care less; and the savoury inside, his meal to a passed class. They whirl through his mind, spooling under pockets of cerebral memory he can't quite reach.

Otherwise, it's a good analogy. Too bad Alfred's got an intensive peanut allergy. Whoop-dee-doo.

Normally, he’d be feeling the cruelest form of injustice. Like a poison tipped dagger's been thrust deep into his stomach, twisting his innards into mush because wow this is absolutely unfair, he’d planned to spend the weekend playing games, not writing about how a dude could be in love with their own sister, gross.

But Alfred can’t afford failing her class a third time.

Classical Literature is the only subject he’s struggling against. Academically, it’s not like he’s _dumb_ or anything. He puts in efforts and gets a range of marks between good to decent to barely scrapping by. Science is a pain to do but fun to learn, it helps that his teachers use modern day analogies to explain, because, y’know, this is the twenty-first century. There are no thine and thees and wherefores.

He’d chosen French over Spanish as an elective subject, thinking that maybe if he ever went to Paris and found a nice french girl he’d be one step ahead of Matthew. What a terrible decision. Matthew’s a French beast, lives and breath _je souis Mattie_ , and probably drinks it down with a long cold swig _of mon frere un idiot_.

Now, P.E is fun. The only thing he’s real good at is sports. Football? Piece of cake. Baseball? Be right back I just scored a home-run. Track-and-field? Oh didn’t see you there, I was too busy racing into first place. 

Okay, so he showboats. Just a teensy bit. But c’mon, who kind of doesn’t? At least Alfred’s better than the senior neanderthals who strip students stark naked in the field per traditional hazing rituals. Highschool's scary with a capital _S_.

Alfred’s only got six months left until he’s promoted to ninth grade. That means six more months of kissing ass and kicking ass to make a big enough splash to get noticed.

“Noticed by who?” Matthew asks. They’re enjoying lunch outside on the bleachers.

Alfred sighs. “Mattie Mattie Mattie. Oh, Mattie.” He sends a nonplussed look his way, frown and grimace included, the whole package deal. His brother was so narrow-minded. The worst kind of minded. “This is high-school,” he says, one hand sweeping in a grand gesture towards the general direction of the sophomore building.

Matthew snorts. “That's what you said back in elementary about junior-high, remember, “Mattie, we're gonna be in middle school I'm gonna be popular” and look where we're at now.”

Alfred snorts, louder. “Yeah, but this is different,” he rips apart the tenderloin, talking while chewing. “In high-school, everything changes. We’ll hit puberty. Our voices will get deeper, more manly. We’re gonna hit at least five more inches by the first year, I can feel it. We might even get,” here, Alfred lowers his voice to a stage-whisper, “girls.”

Alfred’s two inches shorter than Matthew, and Matthew barely qualifies the minimum for the average height of pubescent North Americans. He's ready to experience the glitz and glam of Alicia Silverstone's highschool tirade. Jesus, he could make do with being a virgin loser for the rest of his life if it meant getting an exponential growth spurt. Not the few inchest boost bullshit, but the kind that'd have him neck-and-neck with lanky freaks like Jonathon Sparks, yes, I know you're tall, no, you don't have to squat when you talk to me, for christ's sake.  

“Yeah, and you know what else you’ll get? Acne,” Matthew retorts. He takes a vicious bite of his sandwich, one he’s made himself. Selfish ass. Could've saved 4.50 on something other than cafeteria crap. 

“Yeah, sure, but they have cream for that. I’ll make sure to buy the goodstuff.”

Matthew scoffs. “With what money? Your own? I'm eating, don't make me laugh. I’ll choke and die and then you’ll make a mess at my funeral because you’d be two hours late.”

“Dude, that’s a low blow! I’m not a late because I want to be. I just get a little distracted when I walk is all,” Alfred says, jabbing his shoulder a bit too roughly.

Matthew rolls his eyes. “Personally, I want to join the Student Council.”

“Those nerds?” Alfred snickers, piecing apart his dessert.

“It'd look good on my personal record," Matthew rebukes, "not that you'd understand. I'm sure that by the time you're eighteen, I'll be driving to the police station at 3am to pay bail." He spoons a generous helping of Alfred's confectionery, mindful of his sudden squealing - “That's mine!”- and reckless punching. “I heard they're pretty popular,” he teases. “Maybe you should join.”

Alfred snorts. “Not in a million years. I'd rather watch pain dry than staple papers together and talk about school budgeting.”

“Paint peeling is right around your alley. I'd have to seriously reconsider their requirements if, god forbid, you were accepted in.”

“You callin' me an idiot?”

“Hardly. If anything, you're more protozoan.”

Alfred huffs. “Jesus, Mattie. Can't you just dumb yourself down for us little people once in a while. Your big word insults hurts twice as much.”

Matthew doesn’t lose a beat. “Loser.”

“Shitface.”

“Asshole.” Lapsing into another argument is second-nature, almost as easy as breathing.

Somewhere in the midst of discussing another one of Alfred’s grand schemes (“I'm telling you Mattie, this one's foolproof!” “Alfred, where would you even _get_ a sportscar? Ah, wait, don't answer. It's stupid, isn't it.”), they're interrupted when the stadium entrance bursts open. The door slams into a wide-arc, swinging with enough force to produce an audible crack that makes both boys flinch.

Alfred quickly wraps up his meal, choking down a big chunk of the dessert and thrashing the rest. Matthew follows suite, crumpling his paper bag into a small ball.

They get up the moment a group of seniors saunter in.

Matthew is the first to start moving. A lot of people find it difficult to talk to Matthew. He’s timid and mousy, hiding behind books, or at times Alfred himself. He has a habit of lowering his voice and trailing off. Starting a conversation is taxing, but maintaining one's even nastier. Matthew thinks one-liners are a great way to hold a conversation. “Howdya’ do?” “Oh, good.” “The weather looks pretty dull, don't you think?” “Yeah.” “So what happened last night?” “Books.” Done. Nada. End of discussion.

Many a times Alfred’s spent trying to knock some decent sense into him that if he wants to make friends, he’s gotta do better than “Fine.”

On the other hand, spotting him is a whole other can of worms. He’s gotta have a drop of Japanese blood in him, it’s the only way to explain how ninja-like Matthew can get. Sometimes people bump into him in the hall and they go and say some stupid shit like, “Jesus, what are you, a phantom?”

Okay, so Alfted’s kind of said something similar as well ("Christ, Matthew, what are you a ghost.”) but it’s different if he does it. Alfred’s his brother. He gets Sibling Cards, abstaining him from the others and obsoleting anything stupid he says. Kind of like Get out of Jail Free cards but better.

He can use these in real life.

“Can you believe that asshole?”

Alfred perks up at the voice. He recognises the distinct German accent anywhere, and subtly sneaks a look, suspicions confirmed. Gilbert Beilschmidt waves his hands aggressively in the air, jabbing and punching to make his point. His left cheek sports a blue bruise.

“If I see him one more time today, I'll make sure he wakes up brain-dead into next year.” He emphasies by punching the air a few more times, his companion, a handsome Spanish boy, shying away from the aerial assault.

“Now, now, darling, you know he doesn’t mean what he says.”

Gildbert scoffs. “You keep saying that Francis but I get the feeling you don’t know what that’s supposed to mean. You can’t keep defending that shitty rat. If I hear him say one more thing ‘bout Ludwig I’m gonna-”

“Punch him black and blue,” Francis repeats, his voice a soothing lilt. “So you say. Feel free to send me pictures when you make do on your promise.”

Alfred and Matthew pass them discreetly, making sure to keep their heads low. They’ve no actual reason to be afraid of these seniors. The problem lies in that, contrary to popular belief, Alfred is terrible at meeting new people. The secret is his uncanny ability to say the wrong thing at the wrong time.

This is one of those times.

If Matthew could describe Alfred, he would say, from the bottom of his heart, with nothing but the most sincere of tones, that Alfred is fucking _loud_.

“Hey Mattie,” Alfred whispers, but it comes out harsh and coupled with their quiet surroundings, is a beacon for eavesdroppers. “Isn't he the guy who went to school naked last month?”

Wait, no. Matthew takes it back. Rather than just being loud, Alfred's a fucking _idiot_.

Obviously, Gilbert catches their conversation easily. “Hey brat,” he calls, "who the hell do you think you're talking about.”

Instinctively, Alfred freezes. Nothing good comes in tandem with the name Gilbert Beilschmidt. When the students say it, it's to mock him. When the teachers do it, it's in vexation. He's got a younger brother

The event in question dates back not one month, but in fact two months ago after a particularly extravagant senior party. Apparently, and this he's only heard down the grape vine, it had involved a lot of drinking. And smoking. And, oh yeah, weed. The cool kid works. The kind Alfred wouldn't do, per say, because he knows better. But the kind he definitely wanted to attend and see and kinda do, but only a teensy bit. Maybe just for a minute. No longer than that though, he's got morals to adhere.

Gilbert approaches him, nose flared and face twisted with the promise of a good beat down. Alfred steps back the closer he gets until he can't, back flat against the wall. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Matthew's alarmed face. Well, time to mark another notch over his decision making skills.

“You've got nerves talking about me behind my back,” Gilbert snarls, placing an arm over Alfred, towering over him. “If you've got something to say then you can say it to my face, why don't you.”

Francis snorts. “Oh please, Gilbert. Everyone knows how much of a fool you've made out of yourself. If someone wants to talk about your little Monday morning mishap, then they can talk all they want. You reap what you sow.” He slings a hand over Gilbert and gives Alfred the Look, the kind the teachers give him when they grade his papers and see something absolutely horrendous, enough to circle with enough force for the red ink to pierce through.

 “Imagine what more people will say when they see you corner a little _boy_ ,” Francis remarks, enunciating like he knows it will knock sense into Gilbert, and aggravate Alfred simultaneously. 

Get this, Alfred may be fourteen years old (coming fifteen quite soon, thank you very much) but he isn't little, and most definitely not a boy, not in the way so obviously implied. Without inhibition, Alfred says as so, but not quite word-for-word. What comes out is, “I'm not little you ass.”

It takes a moment for Alfred to realise exactly what he's said. When it dawns on him that he's done something incredibly stupid, again, once more, no surprises there, Matthew looks at him with an absolutely distraught expression,his face a blatant canvas of “I cannot believe you just said that you fucker”; Alfred knows he gone done bad.

“I'm so sorry,” Alfred apologises. The proverbial dams breaks away. He isn't sure what to say next, and they all just kind of mend together into  _sorry_ , _I didn't mean that_ , _I'm an idiot_ , spooling outwards.

Alfred's so busy trying to get his thoughts together, to convey his deepest regrets because well, he doesn't want to get a beating by seniors, or by anyone in fact, that he doesn't notice Gilbert's previous hellish expression slowly morph into appellation, or Francis' smile twist unpleasantly.

 “ _Cristo_ , Francis, Gilbert. Look what you've done to the poor boy! He's a sniveling mess,” their third companion says. He grabs them both by their collar and pulls. “Give him some space.”

Too bad he's still caught up in his blubbering words. 

"Hey,” he says softly, interrupting Alfred's nonsensical blabbering. “You're in middle school, yes?”

Alfred nods. He's scared shitless right now. Briefly, he looks up to see Francis scratching his cheeks, both with apologetic expressions.

“Are you alright?” he asks, with a pleasant if not tad bit awkward smile. “They can get pretty intense without realising it.”

Gilbert sniffs. “I don't go around hitting minors,” he says quickly, quicker than Alfred's apologies. “I've got standards, man.”

“I bet they're the lower than your self-esteem,” Francis interjects.

In swift response, Gilbert pulls himself to Francis, noses inches away, fist balled and held upright. “Say that again Frenchie. I dog-dare you.”

“Mein Gott,” Francis says, mimicking his accent. “How frightening.” He brings a hand over his mouth, hiding his lopsided smile.

The most temperamental member of their trio sighs, watching them jab at each other with a weary face, easily expressing what could be years of patience balled into a tight knit of nerves and caffeine. “My name's Antonio,” he says, turning to Alfred with a charming smile, “and I'll just apologise on their behalf.”

Antonio's cordial smile and relaxed aura must be contagious. Involuntarily, Alfred can feel his shoulders slump and demeanor relax. Jesus, his heart's hammering a mile a minute. He seemed like the kind of guy who could walk into a bar-fight and come out with everyone and their mother's personal phone number.

Antonio chuckles. “There's a lot of douchebags in this school, but believe me, they're far from the worse when you split the middle.”

Alfred tries to laugh it off but it comes out a raucous cough. “Y-Yeah,” he wheezes, inching a bit closer to Antonio, noticing the way Gilbert seemed to want to join in the one-sided conversation.

Francis clears his throat. “You two should get going by now,” he says, “lunchbreak for seniors is about to start.”

Antonio looks confused. “Two? Wait, who else is here- Oh, hello there, I didn't notice you,” he laughs. Matthew's quietly shuffled over towards Alfred, picking at his sleeves in the universal body language of it's time to go already.

“Wow, you two look really alike. I didn't know we had twins in our school,” Antonio appraises. He gives them both a solid once-over. Somehow, this makes Alfred feel terribly self-conscious, and he fights back the itch to adjust his tie. “What's your name?” he asks in the same way he would the weather.

Alfred answers before he can help it. “I'm Alfred. Alfred Williams,” he says, awkwardly. He points to Matthew. He doesn't need to tell Antonio who Matthew is. Certainly, Mattie wouldn't want an absolute stranger knowing more about him than just his face, passing by in the hall or a surprise glimpse at the library. But Alfred can't help it. The words are flowing out uninhibited. It's like he's possessed or something. “Matthew. Matthew Williams.”

True to word, Matthew has a scandalised expression. “Alfred what the hell,” he hisses quietly. No one seems to hear him. Definitely not Alfred.

Antonio blinks. “So you're both really twins then? I have two younger cousins, identical, boys, just like you two, couldn't be any more different," he says, eyes wide in wonderment. “I take it you both aren't so identical in personality, yes.”

 _We're like the sun and moon,_ _oil_ _and_ _water_ _, Russia and America,_ _c_ _ouldn't be more different, no siree_ , Alfred makes to say. He's interrupted abruptly by Matthew. “I'm sorry, but we gotta go now,” he says hurriedly. Alfred doesn't want to go. He wants to stay and talk to Antonio more, with his nice accent and leisurely attitude. He's just about ready to give Matthew a piece of his mind when he turns and sees an absolutely venomous look. The stuff of nightmares, really.

Alfred gulps and nods. “Y-Yeah. We gotta go go go,” he wheezes.

Quickly, with a vice-like grip, Matthew takes his hand and drags him away. Alfred gets one last look at the trio, Gilbert and Francis having somehow migrated form their argument to laughing at whatever Francis has on his phone, to settling over Antonio's tanned, slender figure.

“See you around,” Antonio calls, waving with vigour.

Alfred attempts a half-wave back, “Y-Yeah, see you.”

Eyes are the windows to the soul, Alfred thinks, and Antonio's are of a beautiful green hue.

 

\+ + 

 

Dreams are a strange thing for Alfred. Most of the time, as he's coddled in the embrace of sleep, he doesn't dream. Like clockwork, he finds himself absorbed in a hazy fervour of reflection that go further into the future than he's more comfortable with. He thinks of what it would be like if he abandoned everything and walked where the wind blew. If he really set his mind to it, could he be an astronaut? Exploring the recesses of space, looking back to the blue globe and wondering if anyone would be waiting for him if he came back.

Sometimes he'll think of Matthew, and if they'll ever part ways. What if, one day, Matthew realises what he wants out of life. Maybe he'll be an author, conveying to his books what he can't to others, not even Alfred. Or, he'll be a chef.

Perhaps Alfred will see Matthew featured on television, his culinary skills taking him to the Caribbeans and docking at the Middle East, all the way Borneo. He'll see and change the world in the only way Matthew can, through timid kindness and a will sharper than knives. 

Today, he is strangely settled. He knows, somewhere deep in the reaches of his subconscious, that he has dreamed a terrible dream. The feeling of bitter desolation accompanies him even when he traverses from the realm of sleep into the world of the living.

Alfred wakes up in a pool of his own sweat.

Matthew is still mad at him for last time. When he leaves for school, he walks on his own. 

Even if Matthew clearly disapproved, Alfred's gone and done the exact opposite of what he's been told, and found out that while contrary to the terrible reputation they have built for themselves, Gilbert Beilschmidt is an honour student and his younger brother Head Boy. Francis Bonnefey is a well regarded member of the Student Council; Antonio Fernandez, an Arts student, his face photographed and framed in the award board over in the student centre.

Alfred's seen his works. He doesn't quite _get_ art. He understands brilliance, because not everyone can draw or paint well. He sees the genius behind the Mona Lisa, acknowledges the effort made in sculpting The Thinker, but he cannot comprehend _why_.

But when he snuck into the Art room the other day, intent on catching the tail of this elusive senior, he sees a painting of black and white faces stripped of their bodies, meshed together in an unholy union of geometrical shapes.

“Interested, are you?” Alfred had spun far too quickly, surprised at being caught. The floors have just been waxed, his shoes new and with barely any traction. He falls firmly on his bottom, having made a fool of himself in front of his older peers once more.

The young hispanic girl, probably only barely older than him, helps him to his feet. Her brown hair, soft and foll of volume, is donned into two low twintails. She offers him a smile and points to the picture with slim hands. “Antonio drew that,” she says. “It's based off Picasso's _Guernica_.”

He nods along, afraid to voice his apparent lack of knowledge. She catches his troubled expression either way. “You should really look it up,” she says, tracing a hand over the framework. “It doesn't hurt knowing a bit more of the world.”

Alfred coughed politely, turning his head away to hide the flush of his cheeks. “I'll get to it,” he says.

By the time dinner rolls around, he's staring at the Guernica and begins to piece the puzzle together bit by bit, numerous Wikipedia tabs opened and read; bookmarked for future use.

He doesn't understand Antonio's painting. But he knows why. The history behind it, the way he must have felt over the past and how he could bring even a bit of the essence into the presence of a blank canvas. Alfred gets it, as confusing as it sounds.

Matthew still isn't talking, which is fine by him, because he's pretty sure Matthew doesn't know anything about Picasso anyway.

(but knowing Matthew, highly unlikely) 

 

\+ +

 

Today, they walk to school together, Alfred trailing behind him by a few steps, tongue-tied. He doesn't want to piss Matthew off more, but he can't stand the silence. It's like watching an hourglass trickle sand. He's sorely tempted to shake the damn thing, grunting, "faster, faster" but real life is far trickier. For one thing, he can't lift Matthew, not yet.

Things get even grimmer when they pass each other in the halls during second period. Matthew doesn't particularly spare him a glance, not even when Alfred purposefully drops his books. He walks by, completely oblivious, not even stopping to help, the nerve.

“Could've at least looked at me,” Alfred huffs, bending down to pick up _The Inner Mechanics of_ _Physics_ , and heaving it to the top of his hard-cover science collection. Somehow, somewhere, he's going to get the worst back-pains and probably hurt himself and it'll all fall on the school and their shoddy textbook rules. Hell, they hardly used these at all.

The next class is Chemistry and Alfred suppresses a malevolent groan. It's the only class he shares with Matthew, and they've been partners since the start of the school year. Now he's gone and made him mad, and Matthew's probably asked one of their other classmates to exchange seats. 

Alfred can't deal with that. The silent treatment is bad enough, but being replaced?

Screw it. He's not going. Who cares if he gets caught? Things can't get any worse than this. He'll just fake being sick if they ask.

Dropping the books back into his locker, Alfred skulks away from the halls and into the library. Deep down, he can't handle rejection well. Maybe it's some sort of seedy deep-rooted philosophical (psychological?) bramble brewing in his subconscious. Or maybe he just doesn't like being second-best.

Either, or.

When Alfred enters the library, he doesn't spot any of the younger familiar faces amongst the sea of individuals, most of them just juniors or sophmores.

Standing out has always been Alfred's speciality. He likes attention, craves it the way a drowning man does land. Getting attention has always been easy. In the Williams household, where there are only two children, himself and Matthew, it's easy to dazzle his guardians and remain under the spotlight.

In contrast, Matthew has slowly come to a resigned acceptance that Alfred will somehow always be the centre of attention and has become a quit but sated individual, praising him just as much as his parents would. Somehow, this just makes him feel worse. Ugh. 

“Move please, thank you,” someone says. On reflex, he takes a step to his left, allowing a group of three students, all females, to enter. He quietly slips in after them. So much for being inconspicuous, you idiot, he thinks. His usual seat, the sofa next to the window, is being used. Alfred wouldn't have sat there anyway. Not when he's alone.

The third floor is far more quiet.

Home to the library's non-fiction and academic works, Alfred picks up a book at random and prays it isn't astronomical the Science section is temporarily closed off for book filing. _101 Ways to Cook Chicken, Western Eastern and More_ paint across the cover in neat printed italics. Personally, he'd have preferred a textbook to this. He's stupid in the kitchen. Just buy some Mc Donalds, that'd solve everything.

Alfred flips through the cookbook, pretending to peruse the selection while covertly observing his surroundings. The downside of the third floor were their lacks of seats, as most of the furniture were commisioned for the first and second floor respectively. Maybe Matthew must be feeling guilty, noticing Alfred missing. 

He should apologise, he knows this. Matthew is the sun to his moon. They've been together since birth. Contrary to popular belief, Alfred doesn't have many friends. He knows people, sure. He can say “Hi” or “Good morning” easily, but opening up to someone, expecting things and being expected of in turn, is terrifying.

Later, he'll say as much from the bottom of his heart. If anyone comes and tell you Alfred Williams isn't a major total fuckbucket, then they're blind and wrong. For now, he'll lie low and think of what to say properly as he reads through India's famous buttermilk chicken.

Delicious.

Without a friend to bolster his confidence, Alfred can't bear to sit anywhere near these strangers without feeling self-conscious enough to pop. But he does know a good place to read. Quietly walking towards the Classical Literature section, how ironic that his one place of solace would be located in the den of his bane, and jiggles the door labeled NO ENTRY until it clicks open. He makes sure to quickly check behind him for anyone watching, smiles wickedly when they don't, and slips in.

 

\+ +

 

Alfred is somewhere in the middle of his book, marking pages with dog-ears because Matthew definitely needs to make this, and more than two hours have passed by. He should be in Physics by now but the book had been too good to pass up, and the room quiet and cool. The perfect place for a doze. If only he weren't so terrified that someone would catch him inside and finally close the room off properly.

He'd been hunched over the book for over an hour. When he stretches, a pleasant ring of pops lull him awake. Alfred takes a glance at his watch and decides he might as well skip the rest of the school day and just hang in here, it's not like someone's waiting for him.

Not when Matthew's probably still probably mad.

The room is wide and spacious, with an empty desk near the front of the door. There are six bookcases, each shrouded under a thick black cloth, pushed to the wall opposite the other. He's weasled between two of them.

For a place of solace, the biggest drawback would be how boring it was. He could put the book back and exchange it for another one, but that would mean having to risk coming back inside. Around half an hour ago, the murmur of students had begun to pick up. There were no guarantees he wouldn't be caught second time.

Reading through the book a second time would be a chore. Pictures of food could only sate his curiosity for so long, and he's never been quite a firm reader. Easy, short, concise sentences are the lifeblood of his nature. That's why mangas are great. They have words _and_ picures.

God, what he'd give for a manga right about now.

He's never quite bothered to look at the selection under the cloth, nor does he remember Matthew ever talking about it – or maybe Matthew did perchance mention it but he just never listened. Seemed like the sort of thing he'd do.

Placing the _101 Ways of Chicken_ cookbook to guard his spot, Alfred takes the edges of the cloth pooling to the floor and flips it up with grand splendour. He's prepared to see dictionaries and thesauruses, maybe the complete collection of _The Amazon Rainforest_ , or something else equally boring. He doesn't get any of those.

What does receive is an eyeful of children's books, and tufts of blonde hair between the gaps in row.

What. The hell.

Who was that. No, really, had someone been there all along? And why hadn’t they said anything? Oh god, Alfred hummed _Walking On Sunshine_ for a solid ten minutes.

He's t-e-r-r-i-b-l-e at singing.

Alfred can feel the flush paint up his neck, across his cheeks and dampen his ears. But. What if it wasn't a person. Didn't someone used to say the school grounds were built on top of ancient Native American burial grounds? 

Stupid jokes, he'd said.

Can't be true, he'd jeered.

Jesus, well, who's laughing now? Definitely not him.

Oh, well would you look at that, it's right about time he went along now, can't miss those physics equation, very good brain teasers, yes they are. Alfred's itching, positively begging himself, to turn tail and run, but he's rooted to the spot. He hates ghosts, abhors hearing ghost stories. Can't stand to play or watch the movies either. Hell, he'd fallen for the jump-scare in _Caster The Friendly Ghos_ for Christ's sake.

Automatically, Alfred picks up his book and is about to speed-walk out the door, faster than Usain Bolt, or the Sharknado, when he crashes into something obviously corporeal.

He lands square on his back, book knocked out of his hands. His kneescaps knock against each other roughly, parting downwards to form a gap between his calves and feet.

Fuck, that hurt.

Do ghosts have physicial form? Or was that only if they possessed someone. He'd heard stories of ghouls, they were kind of like zombies weren't they? Above, the ceiling lamp flickers, further fueling his paranoia.

One hand lies on top of his chest, feeling the erratic beating of his heart. Another nestles its way below his head, feeling for the bump of impact. He'd landed on his butt, with most of the force gravitating below his bust. There was only a light sense of pain in his cranium but his hands had moved on instinct.

Alfred keeps his eyes closed, afraid to see into the depths of the Otherworld, until someone clears their throat and speaks in a very human, very British accent.

“I'm not sure if this is on purpose, but it's the most inappropriate position I've seen from a minor. It's like something from a porno.”

Alfred blinks. The overhead lamp casts a firm shadow on this other person. Alfred blinks a second time, just to be sure. His glasses are tilted, askew on their axis. Hastily, he fixes it, hurriedly getting up and spreading his legs to better reposition himself.

"I don't do kids,” he says gruffly.

The connotation behind his words completely flies over Alfred’s head. “You're human, right?” he catches himself saying. The words sound silly, tumbling from his mouth, but he remembers the ring of his kindergarten teacher’s voice, _It’s always better to be safe than sorry_. Though, this was mostly attributed to pedophiles. But weren't ghosts, when you really got down to it, just freaky pedos waiting to creep up on someone? 

“Gee, sometimes I wonder myself. I'll just let you decide," he motioned with his head to the door, “now scram, brat.”

Alfred's never had a keen eye for his surroundings. By nature, his head’s up in the clouds while his body moves on auto-pilot, kind of like his mouth and brain. The nerves that should connect them together, in a seamless distribution of important and generally life-saving neurons, was mistakenly cut alongside his umbilical cord at birth.

“You can't just tell me to leave, that's rude.” Like the Tortoise and the Hare, his mouth's leagues faster than his brain.

Apprehensive and befuddled, Alfred hoists himself up quickly, knees knocking and hands wriggling against the bookcase, only to fall short and reach up to his shoulders. 

“Oh, my apologies. Here, let me rephrase myself in a way I'm sure won't strike your nerves. Fuck, off.” He cranes his head upwards, taking full advantage of the difference between their heights and looks down at Alfred with striking green eyes, challenging him to say more.

“Why don’t you fu-ck off,” Alfred retorts. His voice falters at the swear word, having thought of it many times before, uttered a few times, but never towards another human being. Usually it was reserved for stupid mistakes in Zelda or stubbing his toe against the furniture. If only his kindergarten teacher saw him now. 

He raises one bushy eyebrow, Christ, those things were huge. “I’m not playing this, not with a kid.” He rolls his eyes, momentarily staring at the ceiling and muttering what Alfred's sure to be a small prayer. “Don’t you have class to attend?” he says.

Alfred looks away.

“Of course,” he says, not at all surprised.

Caught red-handed, as expected, what with his shitty luck. Might as well roll the Servant compendium and strike Lancer. “No.” _Yes_. “Well, don’t you have class?” he deflects.

The stranger avoids his question. “Looks to me like you’re skipping. What would your parents think?” He says it with ease, a bitter tone rooted to his voice, as though he’s been told the same question many, many times.

I don’t know, Alfred thinks. I don’t know because I haven’t seen them in so long. Alfred’s used to people talking about his past like they knew better, offering considerate smiles and conscious appeals, treading carefully to avoid the matter. He hasn’t seen his mother in a very long time, isn’t even allowed to bring her up.

His teachers knew. His guardians knew. Even Matthew knew. The neighbours, the butcher, the attendants at the market, his friends and classmates. They all _know_. No one mention his parents, and in the rare moments they have to, for signatures or consent forms or documents, they refer to Matthew’s parents as his own.

“ _That’s why you’re Alfred Williams now, not Alfred Jones.”_

“Disappointed,” he chokes the word out, “but I’m sure your parents are proud of you, right?”

He gets a snort in response. “They’re over the moon, couldn't be any happier.”

The conversation grinds to a halt. Alfred's terrible at reading the atmosphere, but he knows neither of them are going to leave anytime soon. Couldn't they just stay in here together? Alfred could take one side and he, well, he could go back to being some weirdo skulker. “You shouldn’t be in here,” Alfred says, pointing to the _Do Not Enter_ sign.

“Pot, meet kettle,” he grunts. “Look, if you leave right now, and I mean right this instant, we’ll call it a favour. I don’t knock you senseless, and you don’t get a concussion,” he lowers his smarmy voice, as though this was an agreement between men, as if Alfred had a choice.

Slimy British asshole.

“That's not fair,” he shoots, “you'd hit a minor?” Perhaps this had been what Antonio had meant of “worse”, the bottom of the slimy barrel.

“I'd kick my grandmother to the curb if I could.” Brutal, absolutely brutal.

“Why do you want me to go so badly anyway?” Alfred says, straining his neck to level his gaze. Alfred barely reached up to his shoulders, goddamn it. “Unless,” understanding dawns on him, “you're breaking school rules,” he can't help the sing-song tone from slipping into his timbre.

“What are you, five?” he scoffs, "don't tell me you're an honours boy. Boy scout privileges are null outside camp, lad."

“I'm not,” he wasn't wrong, per say, but fuck him. “I can do what I want, when I want.”

“Oh,” he drawls. He gets a strange glint in his eyes, the kind that sends a shudder down Alfred's spine, and fishes a cigarette box from his pocket. “So you wouldn't hold your reservations for one of these?” With deft hands, he flicks the lid open and shakes the box until a cigarette pops out, easily grabbing the end with a twist of his fingers. “Since you're a wild card, after all.”

Alfred eyes the cigarette dangerously. He's seen his classmates smoke outside school premises but they're the kind of people he doesn't associate with, isn't expected to talk to; the kind his parents point to and say, “Alfred, Matthew, let that be an example to you.”

“Of course not,” he snaps, voice faltering. He takes it carefully, twisting it over and under to get a better look. Would the nicotine taste bad, or cool? Why else would people smoke it. You've done fucked up swell, Alfred berates. “Lighter,” Alfred chokes, “I don't have a lighter.” He's about to hand it back when his companion easily brings out a blue zippo.

“Here ya' go, lad.” The stranger flicks it once, then twice, blue flames burning into view. “Now, don't be a wuss and try it.”

He extends the cigarette, watches the British boy light it, and freezes when a thin trail of smoke drifts upwards. Chilling apprehension roots his motors shut, and every flimsy powerpoint, every lame government spokesperson, flashes through his mind with vertigo. 

"I"m waiting," the senior says, inflection apparent in his timbre. 

"I'm getting there," Alfred snaps. The cloying smell of smoke has always been unpleasant for him, but given the current circumstances, it's wretched. _Smoking can give you cancer_ , repeats like a mantra, in the same dull, exhausted voice of every Anti-something campaign he's ever been forced to sit through. Hell, he's even reminded of the cheesy, sorry excuse of a cardboard cutout project he made back in third grade.

“Take it,” he shoves the cigarette back, mindful of the burning edge, his hands shaking. He doesn't want to concede defeat, but the rush and smoke and peer pressure dread is making his nauseated. “I don't want to,” _I can't_ goes unsaid. 

He laughs, snatches the cigarette back and inhales. "Hook, line and sinker," he breathes. 

“What?”

“You didn't actually think I'd let you smoke one of these, did you,” he snorts. “I knew you wouldn't put out, brat.” He exhales, leaving behind a stretch of smoke. “A blind man could tell.” Alfred opens his mouth to say something, anything really, to wipe the smug look off his face, but nothing comes out.

“Wow,” he breathes. "Just - wow." Jesus, hook line and sinker indeed. 

“You're still here?” he drones. Alfred watches him lift the shroud and leaf through the collection. Pale, nimble fingers trail over the spines, each adourned with small rings of varying colour. “Get back to class, kid.” The smell of the smoke was already starting to permeate the air. “You don't want to disappoint anyone.”

Alfred's still entrenched in space when he spares a glance. “What, you want something else from me? I have heroine in the back,” he laughs, “if you're really itching for some fun.”

“I-I'll go now,” Alfred squeaks. He’s going to leave now, okay, timer start, ready set go. “S-See you.”

He gets another snort in response. 

Just before he leaves, hands ready to twist the doorknob, Alred takes one good look back and commits this strager's face to memory. Even though he knows this person's here of their own violation, the lonely feeling exuded is palpable.

His brother sought solace in books, delving into a world of his own making, but always aware that once he put the book down, adventure finished, and stretched his arms, he would have someone waiting on the other side.

This empty closed off room, sealing the outside world away, is the picture of loneliness. “Goodbye,” Alfred calls out, letting his voice carry. He's a prick, yeah, but he wasn't raised in a barn. Alfred knows his manners clearly. 

He shuts the door after himself.

 

++

 

School passes by in a blur of monotonous action.

No matter how hard he tries to keep a look out for Antonio and his friends, all he gets are rumours down the grape vine that further fuel the fires of jealousy, making him come up with even more extraneous plans that baffle Matthew. On the plus side, Matthew’s went and accepted his apology. Apparently, he’d been waiting smugly for the moment Alfred would cave and realise that yes, he is a dick. The dickiest of them all.

If he got over the initial embarrassment of falling headlong into the rabbit hole and onto trouble, it was kinda comforting, and a little bit exciting, that he’s gone and held a conversation with someone from highschool other than asking for directions. Granted, he'd been scared during both occasions. But no matter the size, a win is still a win. 

They wouldn’t remember him, he’s sure. Maybe Antonio would, he seemed like the kind of guy who would wave to a stranger he'd met five years ago.

It isn’t until a month later that he meets the very same senior from the library, hunched behind the incinerator, beaten and bruised and nursing a bloody nose. Maybe he should have left him alone. Matthew would have. Alfred could have just as easily called a teacher over, or one of the prefects, to attend to him.

But he doesn’t, because if Alfred knows anything, then it has to be pride. He wouldn’t want to be caught asunder, in his weakest form, not by someone he doesn’t know, moreso those who cared for him.

He looks up when Alfred mumbles a dazed, “Are you okay?” and _snarls_. Actually fucking snarls, baring his teeth in the most primitive fashion. Alfred isn't sure if he can even see pass the blood drying over his eye, he hopes he can't.

His legs move mechanically, leaving in a run in the same manner he does in relay races, and when he comes back, its with a smuggled first-aid kit from the nurse's office. “Just. Here.” Alfred bends down and shoves the box to his chest. 

Surprisingly, he doesn't say anything. Just accepts it with a long, weary sigh.

“I’m Alfred,” he says, unsure if simply leaving without a word would be the correct choice. A part of him, the side that isn’t dictated by logic but instead the tremour of a heart, of feelings, the kind that can empathise (because while Alfred doesn’t know what it means to be alone, he does know abandonment), posses him, “Alfred _Jones_ , and don’t you forget it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. The first chapter is a bit messy, I know, but I'll earnestly discipline myself to write more cohesively henceforth. 
> 
> There are several factual/grammatical errors floating around, mainly attributed to Alfred's lack of attention in class, ahaha. Also, he's fourteen. I'm not sure about you but when I was fourteen, boy oh boy, let me just say, time machines can't come quicker enough. 
> 
> Words: Approx. 8317 words


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